Tuesday, December 10, 2013

A New Fix for an Old Problem

A
New Fix for an Old Problem

By
Nicole

Depression
and anxiety have been the bane of my existence since I was ten. I
grew up with few friends, no family confidants, and a crippling sense
of loneliness. Social isolation and darkness followed me into my
thirty-first year, where, mangled by the stress of a PhD program (in
psychology, no less), and incapacitated by the pain of living moment
to moment, I became obsessed with suicidal thoughts for weeks.
Finally, the taut wire of my equilibrium snapped. I attempted suicide
and landed in the psych ward on the top floor of one of Chicago’s
best hospitals.

I
was angry. My admittance, while “voluntary,” was actually just an
alternative to being arrested. I did not belong there. After all, I
had been managing this pain for years, and although the pot had
finally boiled over, I believed that I could bring it under control
again. My denial and lack of insight were shattered during the next
five days, however, and in the best possible way.

The
transformation began when I acquainted myself with some of the other
residents. My roommate, suffering from depression like me, was a
large crack-addicted black woman, prostituting to support herself.
Her boyfriend stole copper wire for a living and sold it for what she
said was “big money.” She was also funny, caring, nurturing, and
I loved her the most.

Those
of us who were depressed were in the minority; the ward was full of
people suffering from psychosis. T was a delightful Irish woman in
her mid-fifties who had “adopted” another resident, an elderly
woman in perpetual confusion. T was convinced that her husband and
daughter were keeping her there against her will and that the people
on television were lying about the real date. She was capable of
carrying on a lucid, even intelligent conversation, and at times I
wondered whether she was psychotic at all. But then I would hear her
at night, sitting on her bed in her room all alone, wailing. “God
help us all!” she would yell. “Let me out! Why won’t they let
me out?”

R
was a large Mexican woman, missing both legs from the knee down, who
would roll around aimlessly in her wheelchair, with a big toothy grin
on her face. Many times I saw her sitting motionless, carrying on a
conversation softly in Spanish, with someone I could not see. Also,
she refused to wear pants.

These
women were just a few of the colorful characters I met. At first I
was scared because a number of them were underprivileged or homeless,
malodorous, and plain incomprehensible and I felt that I was on a
higher, saner level than everyone else. But I quickly learned that
they were considerate, funny, and very likable, and the one thing we
all
had
in common is that we were human, which is easy and dangerous to
forget. Being diagnosed with a mental illness can be a very
dehumanizing process; others tend to equate your illness with your
core personality, and they may treat you as that illness until you
internalize it and dehumanize yourself.

The
staff in the hospital treated us like the disorders they thought we
were, not people at all, and by day two, I felt like the crazed
lunatic that I swore I was not on the first day. Ironically, it was
the other “lunatics” who brought me back to earth, and reminded
me that we are all individuals, with unique personalities, worthy of
consideration and respect. They showed me the light at the end of the
tunnel, which I reached a couple of months after I left.

I
was prescribed Zoloft and Lamotrigine, a mood stabilizer generally
used to treat Bipolar Disorder. I had never taken a mood stabilizer,
although I had been on plenty of different antidepressants. My doctor
must have gotten it exactly right with this cocktail; after two
months of continued depression, the world brightened suddenly.
Everything changed for the better: My attitude, my goals, my
relationships. I do not believe that these changes were one-hundred
percent due to the medication, rather, they jump started my recovery
and I gained momentum as I made changes along the way. It saddens me
a little to know that I never really experienced happiness, or what
other people consider a normal life, before now.

For all of my resistance and anger, I am grateful
for my visit to the psych ward. I met delightful people who, just by
being themselves, taught me about myself. I also met a wonderful
doctor who started me on the path to recovery. To anyone who is
struggling to make it through life, I recommend this: Seek help, even
if you think you do not need it. It may be the best thing that you
ever do for yourself.